


Marching to a Different Drum

by Franzbibliothek



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Gen, Marching Band AU, Steve is in the color guard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-18
Updated: 2016-09-18
Packaged: 2018-08-15 20:54:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8072422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Franzbibliothek/pseuds/Franzbibliothek
Summary: So, here Steve was on his first game day, in a bright blue jumpsuit, covered in sequins, surrounded by girls, and he had never been so happy to be somewhere in his whole life.





	

Underhand, overhand, pop, toss, catch, right shoulder. Steve swore quietly as the flag wobbled in the course of its arc and fell to the ground instead of into his outstretched hand. The rest of the band was lounging behind the bleachers, even as the seconds on the scoreboard were winding down. There was only a few minutes between them and the the first halftime show of the season; Steve still hadn ’t mastered the toss that was the big centerpiece of the whole thing. 

A loud whistle broke out and the football players shuffled off the field, covered in the mud left by last night ’s rain. Peggy Carter gave the motion and everyone who had been relaxed and chatting moments before, jumped up and formed their lines, instruments at the ready. Steve quickly found Bucky and passed him his phone and wallet because unlike his fellow color guard members he didn’t have a bra to stuff them into.

They marched out to applause, audible even above the steady din of the drums. Their whole half of the stadium was filled with people and festooned with blue and white banners, flags, and signs. Steve remembered sitting there every game freshman year, cheering Bucky on and all the while, wishing desperately to be a part of it. 

One of the girls behind Steve bumped into him, and they both simultaneously had to do an awkward half skip to be on the right foot to march in to the beat. He could already feel a blister forming on his heel where Bucky ’s old pair of marching shoes rubbed.

Mr. Erskine, sporting a blue and white scarf, stood beside the platform that Peggy Carter was currently climbing up. He gave a little wave, and Steve responded with a smile not trusting himself to let go of his flag for a moment. If not for Mr. Erskine there was no way that Steve would be standing here. 

Mr. Phillips, who at that very moment was introducing the band to the crowd, hadn ’t wanted Steve anywhere near his marching band. Steve’s spotty medical history alone made him a hazard, his lungs not good enough to blow, his shoulders not strong enough to lug a drum, he couldn’t even properly move equipment out of buses. Every time Steve had tried to apply, Mr. Phillips had rejected him out of hand. That is, until Mr. Erskine intervened and suggested that he join the color guard. 

As the color guard was something of a separate entity, with separate practices and choreography, Mr. Phillips had huffed about Steve knocking himself out cold, but hadn ’t forbade Mr. Erskine’s eccentricity. 

So, here Steve was on his first game day, in a bright blue jumpsuit, covered in sequins, surrounded by girls, and he had never been so happy to be somewhere in his whole life. With a quick gesture from Peggy Carter ’s gloved hands, the band moved into their halftime positions. Steve stuck his right arm out and aligned himself with his opposite, his heartbeat echoed the drum beat as they counted off and Steve began the number with a perfectly executed drop and pop before he moved to the next formation. 

The first number went well, with no confusion or collisions. Unsurprising, after they had spend all of bandcamp perfecting it. Steve had nearly passed out of heat exhaustion spending every spare second on the field counting off to reach the mark on the right beat. 

It was only on reaching the second song that he began to worry. They ’d only had the last few weeks to work on it. Just two nights ago, Mr. Phillips had chewed out the trumpets for not knowing their places when they had to come up to the front in a single line.

Steve was personally dreading this move because everyone was stuck in position for about eight measures, intended to give the color guard a chance to toss their flags high into the air. 

The first time Steve had tried this in combined rehearsal, he had nearly brained the saxophone player standing nearby. Jim had been nice about it, but wary of standing too close to Steve ever since.

Steve counted with dread as the trumpets blared out the beginning of Yankee Doodle Dandy. 

This was it. With a flick of the wrist the color guard spun their flags into the air and expected them to fall back into their hands. 

For weeks Steve had been coming to rehearsal early, going over the move again and again. Underhand, overhand, pop, toss, catch, right shoulder. He had about a 75% rate of correctly launching and catching the flag. Steve held out his right hand with nothing but faith. 

He was shocked for a moment when it did in fact land back in his hands after a neat single spin. Then, he realized he had accidentally stepped out on the wrong foot and, in his obsession with the toss, forgotten that the next position demanded that he make it about half way down the field in just eight measures. 

Angling his flag half-heatedly Steve booked it to his mark. The turf though was still slick with last night ’s rain and in his rush Steve’s feet in his borrowed marching shoes slipped out from under him and sent him face first into the muck.

Steve jumped up as soon as could to get out of the way of the incoming drumline. He made his mark about a beat off, and launched into flutters, quickly catching up with everyone else, but conscious all the while how the grass and mud stains would show against his pale blue uniform. Not to mention the redness of his face.

He ’d screwed up. He’d screwed up so bad and everyone had seen and Mr. Phillips was probably going to force Mr. Erskine to get rid of him after the show. 

The only way Steve kept himself from bursting into tears was that it took all his concentration to march backwards doing figure-eights without knocking into the flutes. 

It was lucky that the performance ended soon after, and the whole band marched off the field to loud applause, but now it sounded sarcastic in Steve ’s ears.

Once Steve gave his flag to the color guard captain, he fled to the end of the bleachers where a chain-link fence separated the stadium from the surrounding area. Finding a nook Steve promptly focused on not panicking at the idea of what was going to happen. 

His Mom had been so happy, so proud, and had even said she would ask the doctors about attending some of the indoor games. He didn ’t even notice Hodge and his gang approaching until they were looming over him.

“Hey, cheerleader, good job showing us all your ass out there.” Hodge said.

Steve realized with a sinking heart that he was now trapped between the fence and these goons. His chest felt tight, his head felt light and his legs felt weak; Steve rose to his feet. He knew if he got into fight he would definitely be kicked out of the band, no matter what Mr. Erskine did. But he wasn ’t just going to cower and hope they went away.

“Oh look at this. You going to show us your baton, Sweetheart?”

“Is there a problem?” Steve’s heart raised as he saw Peggy Carter, still decked out in full drum major regalia, standing there with what seemed like half the marching band behind her. The entire color guard in particular were all standing at her left, flags in hand and looking ready to personally thump Hodge and his gang. 

Hodge realized he was outmatched and muttered a  ‘no’ before slinking out of there with the rest of his guys. 

Peggy turned to Steve who was still half pinned to the fence.  “Rogers, you good?” Steve nodded not trusting his voice. “If those gentlemen ever give you trouble, just let us know.”

“Yeah! I’ll shove a sousaphone up their…” Dum Dum trailed off after a look from Peggy.

“Steve?” Steve could see Bucky making his way through the little crowd, his hair rumpled up in the back because of his hat. “You didn’t get into a fight did you?”

“We just had to tell some rude guys to move along.” Gabe said, and Bucky gave Peggy a grateful nod as got to Steve’s side and they began moving en masse back to the bleachers, like it was the most natural thing in the world. 

“Buck, I don’t think I’m cut out for the band. I really messed up.” Steve whispered.

“What? Because you tripped? You obviously didn’t see the french horns back up into the trombones.” 

“But Mr. Phillips—”

Bucky wrapped an arm around Steve ’s shoulder. “Come on, everyone knows you work harder than any of us. If Mr. Phillps tries to get rid of you, we’ll all quit.” Steve saw those immediately surrounding him: Gabe, Dernier, Monty, Dum Dum, and heck even Jim nod. Steve’s chest felt tight again for an entirely different reason. “Don’t give me that look. You’re one of us now, Steve.” 

           Back at the bleachers, Mr. Erskine gave them a big thumbs up on their performance, though he did see some places they could improve, which probably meant a late night Tuesday rehearsal. When the band started playing short pieces during the game the color guard jumped up and danced completely unchoreographed, mostly to keep warm. Bucky bought Steve a hot chocolate which he was then expected to share among all the girls and Steve had never really felt more like he actually belonged somewhere than he did wearing sequins and tights. 

**Author's Note:**

> So with fall coming I'm getting super nostalgic about my old color guarding days, on one hand I get to sleep in on Thanksgiving, but on the other the sense of camaraderie! I have no idea if the positions I named here like drop and pop or flutters are in any way universal, but its what we called them. 
> 
> I wanted this to be a super brainless piece, but now it raises so many important questions like: is Dernier a saxophone or a french horn?


End file.
